Free At Love's Bidding by Regina Jennings Page A

observed.
    But what if Isaac was one of the gentlemen merchants in her set? The thought of him with his melancholy eyes gazing at her over a candlelit table at the Tremont Hotel did have merit. He’d place his open palm on the linen tablecloth, and Miranda would slip her hand into his . . .
    And then his brother would burst through the dining room, lunge at his throat, and upend the table. China would explode, crystal would shatter, and once again innocent Isaac would bear the brunt of Wyatt’s uncontrolled fury. Miranda’s lips tightened.
    She stood at the edge of the cavernous arena. What could be done? Dirt and other natural substances she’d rather not identify were all that kept the room from austerity. Flies swarmed everywhere. The worn wooden seats doubled as stairs. Put cushions on them and they’d only be stepped on. That left the table in the front. A cloth maybe to cover the primitive board? A lamp? Some candlesticks to dress up the work area? After all, their customers would spend hours staring at the auctioneer. They might as well give them something to look at besides Wyatt Ballentine.
    Her ears warmed. The thought of looking at him all day was decidedly disconcerting.
    â€œYou’re going to spruce this place up, huh?” Betsy’s bone-china complexion gave her an angelic appearance, an impression that was criminally misleading. “I’m not sure you’re the right person for the job. If you were going through all the trouble ofgetting a fancy dress with ribbons and bows, why would you pick colors that only an earthworm could love?”
    â€œThe color is called cinnamon, and you are not exhibiting proper manners.”
    â€œBut you ruined what would otherwise be a humdinger of a dress.”
    â€œThe dress is understated and classy. It shows reserve and it’s . . . it’s—”
    â€œBoring.” Betsy flopped on the first step and rested her chin in her hand. “The color is boring.”
    â€œIt’s respectable. I’ll not array myself like a strumpet—” The door leading from the pens in back swung open. Miranda stopped herself just in time.
    But Betsy wouldn’t let it go. “Wyatt,” she asked. “What’s a strumpet?”
    Miranda’s eyes burned, they stretched so wide. “What are you doing?” she whispered. “You know good and well—”
    â€œBetsy,” he warned, “where did you hear that word?”
    Helpless . Miranda was helpless and at the mercy of a wickedly clever eleven-year-old. Her eyes went from piercing to pleading. Betsy lifted her chin in victory. “I heard it here at the sale barn. I just wanted to see what it meant.”
    At least Wyatt didn’t look fooled. “Watch your mouth, Betsy Huckabee. You don’t talk that way in front of a lady.”
    She dimpled, clearly unafraid of his bluster. Evidently, she’d never seen him rough up his brother.
    Feeling minutely justified by Wyatt’s defense, Miranda waited until he made it inside the office before she asked, “What’d I ever do to you?”
    â€œYou took Wyatt’s sale barn. That’s what.” Betsy drummed her heels against the hard seat beneath her.
    Enough arguing with a child. Miranda Wimplegate couldn’t set herself against this unruly brat, even if sorely provoked. Instead, she’d do what she could to improve the girl’s prospects. It might be the only thing she accomplished on this journey.
    Carefully picking her way around the dirty arena to the auctioneer’s table she called over her shoulder, “Your uncle owns the newspaper? Is there that much news here?”
    â€œNot often. Mostly he sells the papers from the city, but we print our own when there’s a call for it.”
    â€œIs he raising you?”
    â€œYep. When my aunt died, I came to town to help with my little cousins. Three boys in all. My ma and pa live